Page 4 of After Indigo Irish Nights
“You’re kidding! Robbie is the best older brother ever.”
“Until he starts driving me crazy. He never stops thinking like a cop. Did you know he wanted to have my address, the center’s address, the names of the people I’ll be spending the most time with, and the make and model of my rental car? I swear, he was planning to look everyone up. Meanwhile, he and my other brothers keep teasing me about falling into the fairy world. They don’t want to admit how much they’re going to miss me.”
“From my experience, that’s the Irish way too. They’re crazy superstitious, and they talk about bad luck and death all the time. You’ll see, but I know one thing. You’re going to fit right in.”
“I don’t doubt it. I felt the pull of my Irish roots when I came last time.”
The Irish had different accents and used different words. They certainly dressed differently, and God knew this place was remote as hell. She’d never seen a real cow or sheep before coming here—only a horse, and even then, it had been a police horse. But she still felt a thread of familiarity with the people and knew it to be the bond of Irish heritage. It was a wicked pissah.
Her phone bleeped again, and she pulled it out and held it up for her friend. “Yep. It’s Robbie.”
You alive? I’ve got a salvage boat ready to come after you if you’re on some flimsy inflatable raft in the middle of the Atlantic.
Typical snarky message. She teared up as she replied.
The raft wasn’t too bad, but I had to pay for those little liquor bottles like we’d get at a packie. I’m at my shed, well away from the ocean. It’s magic.
He texted her back instantly.
Seen a leprechaun yet? If you do, knock him out at the knees like I taught you, put him in a box, and ship him back to Southie. We need a short guy with a pot of gold around here. Send pics of the shed. I’ll tell Pop and the rest you enjoyed the raft as a bad April Fool’s joke. Love ya.
She had to swipe her eyes with the sleeve of her black coat. “He’s such a moron.”
“Your brothers are the best,” Ellie said, hugging her. “I’m still proud y’all adopted me. I told Brady he’s going to have to meet them, especially since he also runs the family bar like your brother does.”
“Pop and a few others might come to Ireland someday—”
“What if I flew them over for my wedding?” Ellie asked, lifting her brow.
Kathleen knew where this was going and made a face. Ellie and Brady hadn’t set a date yet, so they had time to figure everything out. “You know how proud we O’Connors are. We make our way. They’ll want to be there for you—”
“But it’s expensive.” Ellie heaved out a breath. “All right. We’ll talk about it later. Is it time for a drink?”
Kathleen gave another dance. “God, yes!”
“I’ll tell you right now… The entire village is showing up at the pub to welcome you. If we were back in our old neighborhood, I’d called it a rippah. Hope you’re not too jet-lagged.”
Like her family always said,You can sleep when you’re dead. “Your Boston accent still needs work, but bottom line: I can handle a big party.” They linked arms and headed back to the car. “Damn, but it’s good to be back together.”
“You bet it is! Let’s head over to my sweetie pie’s pub and get this party started.”
She took a last look at her shed and then followed Ellie to the car. When they arrived in the mostly full lot, Kathleen couldn’t help but grin at the sight of the pub. Or, more specifically, the sight of her best friend’s new stained glass window over the front door of the Brazen Donkey.
“Your pictures didn’t do it justice, babe. Oh my God!”
Her brilliant design was a colorful, cheeky depiction of the pub’s name. A floppy-eared donkey stood in profile in front of a whiskey barrel, which he was peeking into with obvious delight. The design was captivating, not kitschy. Because seriously—a stained glass donkey? Typically, the only time art elevated that animal was in nativity scenes.
“You struck the perfect balance between the old and the new.”
Art was all about creating something universal—classic, even—while making it unique and timeless.
“Stop, you’re making me blush.”
Ellie was still getting used to praise, so Kathleen let her off the hook, her job done. “Got a verdict yet about whether Brady’s pub is better than O’Connor’s?”
Her family’s Irish pub in Boston kicked butt, only it wasn’t on the so-calledhallowedground of Ireland. Legend, she’d read on the flight over, boasted that the whiskey and beer tasted as if the angels and fairies themselves had crafted them.
Ellie made a face. “My current answer is that they’re different in the best ways—like an apple and a pear. I love both.”
